Peek A Boo
by Melanthe Vida
Summary: A dark glimpse into one of Spike's many visits to Angel. Slash. Complete
1. Mirrors

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine except the plot of course. Oh, and to whomever invented the peek-a-boo game? Please don't sue, either.

Timeline: Post Ats Sleep Tight and Btvs Hell's Bells (roughly)

Somewhat hard **R** for m/m sex, language, a few disturbing images, violence, bloodplay, and the destruction of wineglasses. ;)

**A/N:** This fic was originally posted under the title _Lies_. However, it has since been changed to its current title, the first chapter has been edited quite extensively, and I've also added a second chapter (Spike's POV of the event, with a more thorough ending than Angel's POV).

Whew, okay, 'nuff said. Sorry about that.

* * *

"Oi! 'gelus! Where's all the blood?" 

He comes and goes on an irregular basis. Angel is no longer surprised to see him striding into the hotel and rifling through the refrigerator as though he has always been there. No questions were asked the first time Spike showed up and none are asked now.

Angel sighs and peers partway down the stairs to see Spike striding purposefully up them, teasing eyes unabashedly fixed on a very specific point down south on Angel's body.

"You drank it all, remember?" Angel says. "It happened right after I told you not to."

"Buy more," Spike replies. It's not until they're toe to toe that Spike lifts his gaze and flashes a crooked grin. His advancement, however, doesn't stop, and Angel finds himself back-pedaling down the hall again, through his room, and around the bed.

He can't quite recall when all this started, though he remembers Spike arriving in the lobby in a tearful and violent rage some time ago—long ago, at least several months back. He remembers leading Spike upstairs where he spent the night rocking his boy slowly until they both fell asleep. And he remembers getting a bloody nose and a black eye and a split lip because Spike is uncannily much more accurate when he's pissed and drunk.

To this day Angel doesn't know exactly what was behind Spike's outburst or what it was that drove him to L.A. to see his sire, of all people. He does know, however, that it had involved Her. That it always involves Her.

"It's daylight," Angel replies. "I can't go out."

Spike curses and flops down on the bed with a petulant pout, reminiscent of a child who has just discovered that the last of the chocolate cake has been eaten.

Angel smiles inwardly at the display, though it's a frown that appears on the outside, one that Spike knows is a fake. Spike knows everyone so well and the way he picks the truth out from underneath everything is something Angel mostly loathes and occasionally admires—but he doesn't envy it. Never will. Spike lives free of illusions, of the little lie that fluttered out of Pandora's box at the very end.

"Sun's setting in fifteen minutes, you know. You can go buy all the blood you want then."

Spike shrugs easily and lights a cigarette. "'Kay."

And of course it's not about the blood. Spike may drink Angel's whiskey and blood, steal Angel's money, but these are simply bonuses. Spike is here for much deeper reasons than what he can bum off of his sire.

Reasons Angel really isn't willing to explore. Because Angel, like most of the world, does not live free of that little lie. He can still close his eyes and make believe that, in some way, he is what Spike truly wants.

And as Spike presses in close to Angel, trails his fingers up the inside of Angel's thigh, and murmurs, "'M hungry for something else, too, pet," it's not very hard to make believe at all.

In a flash, Angel has his childe's mouth in his own. He plucks the newly-lit cigarette from Spike's hands and sets it on the ashtray he has just of late acquired, having recently learned that cigarettes, sex, and a flammable bed are a perilous combination.

He remembers Wesley set the bed on fire once, when they were still back at the old office. The lights had gone out and the man was stumbling about in the dark with a candle since there were no flashlights—as a vampire, being able to see in the dark wasn't a major concern for Angel and he'd forgotten about it when his friends moved in. Wes tripped over Angel's foot three minutes later, fell, and made a nice little bonfire from Angel's silk pillows and cotton sheets.

Angel remembers the yelp and Wesley shoving his boss out of the room and away from the flames while Cordy ran in with a fire extinguisher. Remembers the stuttered I'm-terribly-sorry-Angel and oh-dear afterward and the bemused look on Wes's face when Angel apologized for having been in the way.

_("some people need to learn to how to apologize. somehow i don't believe you're one of those people")_

_("you don't need to apologize for every single thing, Angel")_

He'd smiled then, for Wes's benefit. They were comforting words, anyhow, if a bit delusional.

But when he looks back now, he realizes…that Wes had simply stated that there was no need to say sorry every single thing.

Wes had never said that every single thing wasn't Angel's fault.

Ridiculous, true. In Wes's mind, the two statements were probably the same.

But Angel wonders.

_("it wasn't for her")_

_("it's because i trust you")_

Wonders if Wes had ever really trusted him.

Fangs slice into his tongue, effectively banishing the thought. Angel groans into the kiss as Spike draws on his blood, blood that is thundering in his ears, hissing at his absolute lack of intelligence and logic. Because he loves Cordelia and he loves Buffy and he loved Conner and Spike is the piece that fits perfectly into the puzzle, but when it's in place, you don't know why the hell it belongs there.

Spike slides his hand down Angel's chest and after a second or two of fumbling with the buttons, he simply rips the shirt off, and it's gotten to the point where Angel no longer even flinches in the face of his clothing's destruction. Everything else soon follows thereafter, dropping to the ground in a heap of black and red and silk and leather. Belt buckles clatter as they hit the floor and it sounds very loud and very far away.

Spike slams him into the little bedside table. There's a sharp crack of breaking glass, from one of the two wineglasses he has on the table every night. They are always demolished by the end of each visit.

The world does not quite melt away as Spike crushes him against the desk—he can still feel the hard, wooden surface underneath, the hundreds of shards of glass twisting painfully into his back—but it has greatly diminished.

Fingers bury into his hair, tugging and yanking violently, and he does the same to the short blond strands, so that they quickly return to their naturally curly state.

He misses so much. Misses the beating of his heart, though he doesn't remember it anymore—two years is still a long time, even for a vampire. Misses gripping the brown, silky locks, misses pulling on it to expose that smooth, pale neck.

Blunt teeth reopen the rapidly closing punctures in his tongue. Through his own blood, he can taste the bitter tang of childe and family and blood, all carefully blended with sweet Sunshine Hair.

He closes his eyes, wanting the last to go away, concentrating instead on the shattered glass buried in his back. Concentrating on anything but the Sunshine Hair he can taste on his boy.

Close your eyes and it all disappears. Right?

_(peek-a-boo. he used to play it with Conner)_

_(peek-a-boo, where did you go, Conner? where'd ya go?)_

_(oh that's right)_

_(Uncle Wesley took you)_

And it's silly because of course he knows about Her—he has known since day one. She is, after all, the reason why Spike is here in the first place.

Spike pushes him on the bed and he can feel the weight of the slim body above him pressing down, strangely comforting.

_(and sometimes he stands over the empty crib. plays peek-a-boo, thinks maybe his son will be there when he uncovers his eyes again)_

_(and sometimes he just wishes he never had a son, never heard of Conner)_

_(wishes he never heard of lovely girl with blond hair, either)_

_(because it's not better to have loved and lost)_

He wonders what She tastes of to Spike. Whether She still tastes of pink cotton candy and bright summer days and picnics-under-the-apple-tree.

Whether She still tastes of everything he cannot ever have.

Spike's fingernails dig into the cuts that cover his back. Angel bites down on his lower lip to keep from crying out, but a soft moan escapes anyway. And though he knows it's wrong, that he shouldn't be getting off on this, it still feels really, really fucking good to hurt.

Much too cheery jingle of steel, like shop bells at Christmas time, and he lets Spike bind him to the bed because dammit, he needs this, needs to be allowed to relinquish responsibility. He's so fucking tired of being the Champion, the one who must always be In Control. He wants to be the sheep for once. He wants to be the guy in the corner of the bar whom no one blinks twice at if he chooses to be a total narcissistic asshole 'cause it's what they expect, and right here and now, he can.

Familiar crash and bright, shimmering, jagged bits and pieces from what was once the stem of the wineglass waterfall from the tabletop.

Drusilla used to be fascinated by broken glass. Once, giggling like a little girl who'd discovered a new secret, she scattered the shiny, sparkling, transparent bits at her Daddy's feet.

_("fallen stars for my fallen Angel")_

He remembers dragging her off into the cellar where he spent the next few hours burying those very fallen stars into her smooth, unmarked flesh.

_(she screams loud enough to shatter the already broken glass and he laughs. red always looks so much better when it's thick and flowing)_

Spike swipes a piece off the table. Pushes it in deep and Angel gasps, arching his back.

Is this what Karma feels like?

_(blue eyes, dark with anger. "let her go, Angelus. she didn't know any better, she was only trying to please you")_

_("now, William, are you not remembering my little lesson about interfering with what i do to my property? mayhaps we should go over it again, hmm? what do you say, boy?")_

Soft kisses and small bites just deep enough to bleed, deep enough to make him feel.

Dip of the tongue that leaves wet, shining trails, drying up the crimson rivers running down his chest, only to have them fill up again as another sliver goes in. And oh, how he'd like to think of this as a Holy Rite. Bleed the Angel; see the cherry gashes and dripping strawberries. Blood to the gods, offer it up.

How he'd like to think so. Because sacrifices are pure, they are sinless.

They are accepted.

But there is none of that. No gods here, in this hotel. No angels, no sparkling white wings, no pure souls. Certainly no virgin sacrifices; Lord knows there are no virgins here. Only tainted ignorance and blissful black innocence. Tattered plumes and grey feathers.

A halo no longer shining and beyond polishing and fractured. Touch it and it just might crack some more. But it won't fall apart.

No, it needs to be intact for him to listen to those empty, shattered lies like so many clear-ringing, hollow bells.

_(yes yes i am accepted because someone is fucking me)_

_(someone recognizes me. hears my screams, hears me beg)_

_(sees me long enough to make me bleed)_

And though he's lost so much

_(no more Sunshine, no more bouncy baby cries, no more delightful, bittersweet blond Sire)_

_(no more Forgiveness)_

a part of him is satisfied in knowing that Spike will always be there.

Spike is raw, hopeless, tattered love. And that kind of love, Angel believes, is indestructible.

Because there is nothing left to destroy. Something left to cling to yes, but while you can grip scatters of ash in your hand, you cannot make those individual bits any smaller.

Nails dig in and pry open a cut

_(and whatever happened to the always-there black nail polish? did he get rid of it for Her?)_

and Spike tenderly swirls his tongue in the gaping wound. Dividing lines between opposing forces are always blurry and it is no different here: Angel whimpers, fingers tightening around the short length of chain that connects him to the headboard even as his mind screams for more.

His eyes fall shut again and he can feel cold tears slipping out from beneath the lids. Self-pitying, bitter, meaningless, and he doesn't care.

"Sshhh. Hush, love." A brush of cool lips against his ear that nearly kiss but choose to whisper instead. Fingers that only moments ago had been ripping into his flesh now gently wipe at the corners of his eyes.

Angel breathes in deep and he catches Her scent beneath it all, so strong it's almost as though She is right here.

_(cookie-dough-fudge-mint-chip, and the memory of its taste has long since faded. he knows it's supposed to taste cold and sweet, a mixture of whipped-creamed snow, but he can't seem to understand what all those words mean)_

It feels like such a sham that he cannot touch what is right there.

_(beating heart to a dead man)_

And the pain suddenly stops. Angel waits, curious. Feels a smooth coolness on his chest as Spike licks and nibbles his gentle way up to Angel's Adam's apple

_(too busy staring at Her to notice ice cream dripping from his spoon)_

_("okay, mortal coordination leaving something to be desired")_

_(silky tongue over his chest)_

_("wrong. it's just right")_

and sweet Jesus, it's all just too goddamned much. He doesn't want Her here; doesn't want this. Sunflower hugs and rosy-pink kisses hit a little too close to home, and home is what he cannot have, and it's supposed to stay that way. Play pretend will only take him so far, after all.

Lids still firmly shut and he whispers, "Stop it."

"Stop what." A whiplash change in moods. Anger overrides what little curiosity there is in the words, words that dare him to Just. Fucking. Elaborate.

Angel opens his eyes, meeting irate blue ones. "Don't do that anymore."

"Why?" Spike asks harshly. Blunt nails which nevertheless feel incredibly sharp rake down Angel's chest. "You want this?" The scratching grows evermore frantic; Spike's voice gets louder with each word until he is screaming. "This what you want? 'Cause she never did it to you? Well, fuck you to bloody hell, Angel! Fuck you—"

Turn of the wrist and the cheap cuffs, like so much else, snap with ease.

Angel grabs Spike's arm, effectively silencing him. They stare at each other in a silent confrontation, surrounded by a sharp, jagged pool of twinkling shards flecked with crimson splatters. Two emotionally fucked-up vampires, blood running down one's chest and the other seeing blood, and isn't this an interesting sight in and of itself.

Spike breaks the gaze first and jerks out of Angel's grasp.

"Sod off." Soft, barely a whisper.

Angel opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. There's nothing to say.

And this should be the part where Spike storms out, promising never to come back on account of Angel being such a goddamned bastard.

Should be. Should be, should be.

Won't be.

Because it would all be such pure bullshit. They both know Spike will come back bearing a new pair of handcuffs just as cheap, and two more tumblers will be eliminated from Angel's collection.

Besides, didn't mother always warn to finish what you started?

Angel wraps his hands around the back of Spike's neck and pulls him into a deep kiss. Coats his tongue with Spike's blood, trying to hide from the flavor that belongs to Her, the flavor that runs rampant in Spike's mouth.

_(cover it up with sparkly paper and throw on curled ribbons for good measure so that maybe even the giver will forget what he has given. see it, shake it, take a guess, but you'll only know blissful ignorance)_

He growls as Spike presses down on top of him and somewhere in the back of his mind, a wild thought circles crazily that he is most certainly breaking the Lore right now.

The bed smashes into the wall with a loud bang and he doesn't care that there are occupants in the hotel who most likely heard. They know; of course they know. And while not a one of them breathe a single word about the issue, he can tell they know from the looks they give him the mornings after, looks dripping with honeyed pity that makes him want to gouge out their eyes.

_(Oedipus in reverse)_

Spike lays spread-eagled, flat on his stomach, in the aftermath of it all, the right half of his body draped over Angel's.

Angel snakes an arm around the slim waist and buries his face into the blond curls, once soft, but now coarse from decades of peroxide abuse.

He misses the silky, long, sable hair of a century past, of the William Spike tries so hard to bury.

An hour passes before Spike shifts out of his starfish position and gets up. Angel watches through half-closed lids as Spike throws on his clothes and slips out of the room, not once looking back.

He doesn't think Spike's ever stayed all night. And that's probably a good thing—he's not sure if he could let his boy go when he is no longer feigning sleep. When he has had that oh-so-familiar presence and touch for a full night.

As soon as he thinks Spike is gone, he props himself up on one elbow, eyeing the closed door before turning his gaze on the remaining wineglass. It's perched halfway on the edge of the table. He can see the room reflected in it, distorted by the bulbous shape of the glass. Distorted and seemingly void of any occupants.

Angel reaches out slowly, deliberately, and tips it over the edge with a finger. It shatters, spraying glass in every direction.

And he leans over and picks of one of the larger pieces. Stares into it, but no face stares back.

They say the mirror never lies.

He wonders if this proves them wrong, that he cannot see himself. He wonders if this means he really does exist, and the mirror is simply playing pretty pretend, just as everyone else does.

_(covered up with sparkly paper)_

He'd like to think that.

* * *

Feedback? Yes, please. (Nods vigorously) 


	2. Black Nails

**A/N:** Some Btvs cross-over for this chapter (only the occasional allusion to specific eps). Just in case you've never, ever watched a single episode of Btvs. :)

* * *

It's been seven months since he sat in his crypt in a sobbing mess until Red

_("my god, Spike, you're being very—very—i don't know, pathetic! you're being pathetic and—and besides, Dawn…Dawn needs someone")_

snapped him out of it and made him Lil' Bit's official babysitter.

_(sometimes Dawn refuses to come out of her room so Spike sits outside her door and tells her stories. she told him once that he should write a book, his life's so interesting. he doesn't mention that most of the stuff he tells her are full of half-truths, edited to please little-girl ears)_

_(he tries not to consider the fact that it's all edited to please his own ears, too)_

Five months since Buffy showed up unexpectedly alive with bloody hands and fingernails stuffed full with dirt.

_("her hands")_

_("clawed her way out of a coffin")_

Tonight will be the one hundred and nineteenth time he's gone to L.A. and chained his sire to the bed. The one hundred and nineteenth time he's bought handcuffs.

Tonight has been the one hundred and nineteenth time he's shagged the Slayer. He always goes after shagging the Slayer. It's a very fixed pattern, though he knows Angel is clueless to this particular fact. You'd think the old man would've figured it out by now considering Spike always shows up here wrapped in the Slayer's scent, but Angel's head is still shoved somewhere up his ass and around the corner.

Or maybe he just thinks Spike fucks Buffy on a nightly basis.

He's close enough, anyhow.

Utter silence greets Spike when he arrives at Angel's huge, poncey hotel. He can smell the humans, but no voices ring out. They've locked themselves in their rooms, no doubt complete with earplugs and industrial-strength denial that their boss and beloved friend is not fucking

_(a thing)_

an evil vampire.

Well, maybe not evil. He doesn't feel very evil; hasn't felt that way in a long time. God, falling for a bloody Slayer and then taking care of her kid sister.

_(circles Angel relentlessly, carelessly twirling a hot poker in one hand. "it was a real bright move, mate, shagging the one chick who's destined to kill your ass")_

The irony isn't lost on him.

_("guess you're neutered for good then, eh, what with that sparkly soul of yours")_

The irony of his situation is quite clear, actually.

Spike begins to rifle aimlessly through Angel's fridge. Where the hell's the stupid moron anyway? He's getting bloody bored, standing around.

_(come out come out wherever you are)_

Git doesn't even have a beer. Or blood, either. Dammit.

"Oi! 'gelus! Where's all the blood?"

Angel slides gracefully into view with a big huff and that is when meaningless words of useless banter begin to fall from Angel's lips in a vain effort to properly fill the silence. And Spike participates because he knows that Angel is trying to make this into something more than a quick fuck-and-run situation.

Funny, that. You'd think Spike would be the one to talk, but when he's here, he doesn't want to say anything. He has enough pointless chatter with Dawn. Sometimes with Red and even Xander. Empty out the silence, replace it with white noise.

He talks of history and English with Dawn. Tells her his version of past events. Recounts his tale of being in a Nazi sub, but leaves out any specific details about Angel. Listens to the witches when they go on about their sparkly magicks and sometimes pitches in; he did live with Dru for a century, after all. You can't live with Dru and not know about pagans and Latin and rituals. He helped Xander fix the windows and doors a few times, too. Things get broken a lot when you're a Scooby. He doesn't do much, just tosses the boy a few hammers and nails. Tries not to get in the way 'cause there's no use in taking over. No point in making Xander feel unneeded. Most times he just has a smoke and listens to Xander chatter about Anya and movies and Spiderman.

Annoying, pointless conversations. But at least the Scoobies talked about stuff that meant something to them, if not to Spike. Angel talks of empty air and hidden tragedies.

Spike finally backs Angel up into the bedroom and says something, anything, to get the pillock to shut the fuck up and kiss him already because he can't bloody well take this forced conversation any longer. And, wow, lookit, he even manages to force out a grin for the pouf to enjoy.

Goody for him.

Of course, his mouth is soon occupied, fingers soon twining through the dark hair. He backs Angel into that room with the empty baby crib.

Spike still doesn't know why it's there. The first time he asked, a couple weeks before, he only received a dreamy smile in reply. The second time he made an attempt to find out the answer, about two days ago,

_("what's with the kiddie crap, mate?")_

he wound up with a broken jaw. He's not gonna risk asking again this time.

Spike sinks his teeth into Angel's tongue, drawing out the coppery taste of

_(safety)_

sire and

_(false)_

comfort.

With one arm still wrapped around Angel's neck, he sheds his clothes—and Angel's—in seconds. It's not long before he has Angel against the little bedside table, not long before he's running a hand down that smooth chest. An expanse of white marble.

He parts his lips, lets Angel explore his mouth and taste it. Yes, taste it, Angelus, drink in the golden-bright-sunshine hidden within

_(scratches and mottled yellow-purple on his body when he wakes the next morning)_

_(and Spike knows she's not as golden as Angel believes)_

and it won't ever satisfy, will it? Because what Spike carries with him is only a mere synonym.

_(the thesaurus lists love and lust together)_

_(but aren't they so very different things?)_

Different, true, but Angel's eyes are closed and his tongue probing and it seems that different will do for now as Angel licks up that forbidden fruit.

_(shiny red apple of Knowledge)_

Know delightful sunflowerdaisy innocence. Spike knows that he certainly does—or did, for one brief moment, anyway,

_("you treat me like a man")_

before yellow-white petals were ripped and trampled and now he Knows he will find no more. And it hurts. Hurts, since once you have Known sunflowerdaisy nothing else will truly make up for it.

But he can't change that. So he takes what's left of Buffy

_(most times she bites more than she kisses) _

and it will do as he searches hopelessly for what he Knows is there. Because he has tasted it once, long ago.

_(shiny red apple of Knowledge) _

_("that was real i won't forget it")_

Angelus had once forced Spike to read the Old Testament in an attempt to teach him Latin. The lessons lasted through to the end of the Book of Genesis before even the mighty Scourge of Europe had to give up.

Spike remembers that the Bible says Adam and Eve were given all sorts of punishments for Knowing.

_(et sub viri potestate eris et ipse dominabitur tui)_

_(and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee)_

He wonders why the Bible never mentioned that Knowing itself was a punishment, too.

Because once you Know something, you cannot forget it.

_(stuff it in deep, lock it up, and throw away the key but it is all much too fragile. and eventually the container)_

breaks. Shards of glass clink and tinkle their way to the floor. The sound jars him from his thoughts and he is drawn back to the sensation of soft, silky lips which never fail to make him moan.

Spike is not altogether sure when Angel decided to put out the wineglasses, when the first ones were broken. Seems like they've been there forever. At any rate, it's damned more convenient than bringing his own razorblade.

He pushes Angel harder against the little table, throwing his entire weight onto the older vampire's body. There's a sharp, enticing smell of blood and Angel's back slips a little against the smooth wood surface from the steadily running blood. Spike buries his fingers deeper in short, dark locks as though it will stop Angel from falling, and he can feel those large hands in his own hair, feel them tugging. Knows that Angel is trying to bring back the curls. He remembers that Angel used to love those curls, always finding purchase on them whenever possible.

Spike gets a little pleasure in knowing that it annoys Angel that he has cut his hair.

Gets even more pleasure in seeing the flash of pain in puppy-brown eyes before pale lids descend down. A growl escapes his throat, one he knows Angel doesn't even register because Angel's eyes are closed and Angel is lost in a world of puppies and yellow canaries.

_(no fuck you, don't close them, look at me, dammit)_

He wants Angel to look at him because he is sick and tired of

_(Dru)_

people closing their eyes while fucking him. Sick and tired of everyone using him as a link to get a shag with

_(Angel)_

their person of choice.

Well, actually _everyone_ is not quite accurate. Buffy doesn't close her eyes, but with her it's worse because he can _see_ it, see within those green orbs that she is thinking of Angel. Bitch even had the bloody audacity to scream his name once.

That was when Spike broke her nose and gave her a black eye before

_("fuck you! you can tell me you don't love me and you can fuck me mindlessly, but i am not your bloody Angel look-alike fuck doll!")_

she finally kicked him into the bed.

_("i told you once you were just convenient")_

_("pretty sure he still thinks you like rosebuds in bed, love. think maybe you should quit lying to the poor sod, let him know you've moved onto fucking the thorns? 'course, maybe admitting it to yourself first would be a good idea…")_

By the time she walked out the door, he was sporting a bloody nose, too.

_(that night he goes to L.A. for the first time ever since the hot poker incident. plays a game of kitten poker and drinks enough so that there are triple the number of kittens by the time the game is over. triple the number of everything, actually, including his hands, too)_

_(breaks down the Hyperion's doors while trying not to throw up and beats the shit out of Angelus)_

_(wakes up the next morning with Angel curled around him and a massive hangover)_

_(feels kinda peaceful till he remembers that bit about being convenient)_

_(then he feels sorry for himself. holds back frustrated tears 'cause he sure as shit isn't gonna bloody cry in front of Angel)_

_(already did that last night, anyway)_

_(thank god he can tell himself it was the alcohol)_

But who is he to complain, really? Doesn't he have Angel? And isn't it enough that he can wave bottled Sunshine in his sire's face?

_(angel-child in a shop)_

_(look all you want, honey, but don't touch anything)_

It is, in a way, enough. In a way, it does give him a certain sense of satisfaction. And the only thing that prevents him from taunting Angel further is because the last time he'd done so

_(spun-gold scented cuffs. dangle them close to Angel's nose)_

_(those damnable, always-closed eyes snap open at last in dark realization)_

_(and Spike only chuckles)_

_("it was good for her, too. always is")_

Angel ended up driving him back because Spike could barely walk, much less spread his legs to sit on the motorcycle.

_(eyes follow him as he limps out of bed and gets dressed, blood still caked on his thighs)_

_("i can give you a ride…if you like")_

_("fuck you, peaches," Spike snaps as he leaves, only to stumble back inside ten minutes later. "yeah, okay, fine, gimme that sodding ride")_

That was one of the few times Angel was on top.

But tonight, Spike is

_("you're beneath me")_

on top.

They tumble onto the bed, Spike's arms subjected to Angel's vice-like grip. Creak of springs. A trail of crimson blossoms bloom along pale cotton sheets, tainting innocencewhite with scarlet as they grapple their way into the center of the mattress as to not fall off unexpectedly.

Spike slips his hands beneath Angel's slippery-sticky wet back. Brings bloodied fingers to his mouth and sucks gently as he stares down at the vampire before him, all closed-eyes and Slayer-imprinted eyelids. Spike remembers when he used to be imprinted behind those lids. Remembers nights of furious passion, entangled in bed sheets; demanding teeth and hands, harsh panting breaths, and sweat-covered skin.

And he wonders, even as he knows the answer,

_("where's daddy i want my Angel Spike i want my Angel i want my Angel") _

_(Spike puts up with her incessant moaning for three months before he finally loses it and slaps her, hard enough for her to crack her skull open against the wall. snarls that if she doesn't shut the bloody fuck up about Angelus, he's gonna nail a cross to her tongue)_

where the hell they went so wrong.

Wonders why he still loves this souled demon even after everything. Even as he mourns the loss of Dru, chases down Buffy's love. He supposes it's because his love for Drusilla is too old and his love for Buffy too fresh, but his love for Angel…it's timeless. And he will hate the bastard, always will—too much has happened for forgiveness now—but Spike knows that he will never be apathetic towards Angel, and isn't _that_ what they say the opposite of love is? Apathy?

There's a lot of truth to this, Spike believes. 'Cause how do you hate someone you don't care about? Why would you even bother with them? You can't and you wouldn't. You can't and you wouldn't and he doesn't care what anyone else says—this is the one concept he will not let go of.

Because if he does, he will be faced with the prospect that no one has ever loved him. Faced with the prospect that fists and whips and lashing words are nothing more than amusement with no trace of affection behind the pain.

Faced with the prospect that he has lied to himself for a hundred and something years.

And that's just really too much for him to take.

Although, he doubts that it will come to that. He still has those memories of gentle kisses on his battered hips and shredded back; brief snippets of conversation with the Slayer while they lie somewhere on the floor of his crypt in the early morning hours. Still has it all as evidence that he is Telling the Truth.

There's a sharp pain in his arm from the shards of glass Angel has dragged onto the bed with them. He plucks out one in his elbow only to have another imbed itself into his palm.

He figures he might as well not bother and reaches instead for the floor. Feels for cold steel and hooks a finger through a circle of metal when he does. Pulls up the pair of manacles and slips them around Angel's wrists, wrists which are ringed with faint, prettily faint, pink bracelets which are only visible because Angel is so pale.

Propping himself up with one hand on Angel's chest, Spike reaches for the jagged stem of the wineglass. Smashes it some more until it's in sizable pieces and then takes one of the shards. Makes the first cut, a deep one, and watches as dark red oozes out. Spills over the boundaries.

And he wonders if Angel loves him, wonders this as Angel arches off of the rose-spattered mattress.

Decides that Angel has to. Has to because Spike really does, in some twisted way, love the nonce, and if Karma truly exists, then doesn't that mean Angel has to love Spike back? Isn't that the way it works? What goes around comes around and all that do unto others shit?

Surely.

Surely, though a part of him knows there is never anything on Angel's mind except a little blond girl with a wooden stake. Spike suddenly feels a rush of anger at this, despite the fact that he's no different himself.

It always comes down to the Daisyflower.

Running a hand down Angel's arm, he scrapes blunt teeth down Angel's chest. Bites down harder until he breaks the skin and then he licks up the crimson syrup. Sweet and sticky and penny-like copper. Places little open-mouthed kisses over the cuts. Watches as the gashes heal, far too quickly. Some are nearly gone.

Spike digs in with his fingernails and opens up the rapidly closing cuts on white flesh and licks up another taste of Sire's blood. He vaguely registers a whimper from Angel and hears Angel's breath catch. Sees shining lashes and a light trickle of tears.

Murmuring sweet nonsense into Angel's ear, he thumbs away the cold-wet at the corner of Angel's eye and leans down. And suddenly, he's tired of slicing open Angel. He feels an overwhelming need for something gentle. He's had enough rough sex in his life, anyhow, first with Angelus, then with Dru, then with the Slayer.

So he drops the shard of glass and gives Angel a tender kiss instead, stroking the silky soft brown hair. Slides his tongue lightly down Angel's chest and sinks deep into the blood that holds the world, holds bittersweet, cruel memories of a hundred years of heartbreak and dark lustful love. Drinks in the nights of the three of them, when William is sandwiched between two brunettes and William feels that rare moment of false love, the kind that does not hurt. Swallows down restless days trapped in a wheelchair with a crazy sire and a crazy girlfriend.

By the time his tongue reaches Angel's throat, Spike can feel Angel stiffen beneath him, can practically see the frown he knows is etched onto Angel's brow…and he knows. He knows why Angel is so suddenly rigid, no longer gasping for more, but he banishes the thought from the realms of his mind.

Spike pretends as much as anyone does, you see. The only difference is that he admits that he's pretending, which, if you think about it enough, kind of defeats the purpose of pretending in the first place.

Spike is careful not to think about it enough.

When Angel speaks up, however,

_("stop it")_

not even Spike can continue with his make believe fantasy.

He tightens his grip compulsively on Angel's shoulders. Tries to keep his voice calm, but knows even before he says anything that he will utterly fail.

"Stop what." The questioning lilt doesn't even manage to make it into his words.

Angel's eyes open at last

_(peek-a-boo)_

and ironically, Spike wants them closed again. Eyes may be the windows to the soul, but they are also windows to the Truth and Spike had been happy with the un-truth.

_(peek-a-boo)_

_(cover your eyes and everything just disappears)_

"Don't do that anymore," Angel says.

_(denial is taught at an early age)_

And he realizes, then and there, that Angel is just another person who only wants Pieces of Spike. Yes, give the Princess with dark curls and a laugh as shattered as her mind that slice of brutal violence and romantic devotion; the bloody sonofabitch sire that scoop submissive childe; the Slayer that spoonful of dark, secret fucks in the night—but make sure you don't let the separate dishes touch each other.

Customers don't like their food tainted.

And Angel only wants his mouthful of dominant top. No, none of that soft, romantic shit 'cause I'm feeling bloody submissive right now, okay? Yeah, scratch me up like that, make me bleed, 'cause I need my ritual of self-flagellation, but I'm to damn tired to do it myself, so do it for me, will ya?

Slash and rip viciously and there is a satisfying sense of shredding skin beneath Spike's nails. He's aware of that much, only that much. It isn't until a grip on his arm causes a deafening silence to fall around him that he realizes he's been yelling himself hoarse.

Angel glares at him, slight surprise in those eyes. Spike automatically glares back. Wrenches his arm out of that familiar clutch and tells Angel to piss off, or somewhere along those lines.

He watches as Angel starts to say something before thinking better of it.

And of course Spike could leave. But he knows there is nothing waiting for him back in Sunnydale except an empty, stone cold crypt and desolate rejection. And a part of him misses his sire.

So he lets Angel pull him down, lets Angel be the one to bite deep into his lip and draw childe's blood.

Spike pushes down on top of the older vampire as expected. Bucks hard, violently, so that the bed smashes echoingly loud against the wall and the mortals are sure to hear.

Spike's single, futile attempt to get the humans to quit fucking hiding and open their eyes.

He doesn't pay attention to when he climaxes, or when Angel does. He doesn't know, doesn't care. What he does know, though, is that there is still one wineglass left standing when it is over.

Spike looks at lone tumbler, curious. They're usually both gone by now. He shrugs it off and lies down beside Angel. Feels the weight of an arm around his waist; a dropped kiss on the top of his head. And he just lies there, trying to preserve this moment before leaving.

He never stays for the whole night. Because he knows. Knows that if he stays, he will wake up and beg Angel to let him remain here for good. Beg to have his Buffy wounds kissed away, beg for whispers of love. Beg for someone to just sodding _care_, for fuck's sake.

And Spike doesn't do begging well. God knows he does rejection even worse. So best to leave, which he does some hour or so later. Slip out and shut the door gently.

_(don't wake the feigning-sleep Angel)_

But he doesn't go any further than that. Rather, he sits down with drawn up knees, leaning against the door. He always sits here for awhile. Not for any specific reason except that it feels right and besides, he can, and that's reason enough for Spike.

There's a muted crash from inside the room, causing him to jump a little. He considers peering inside, but decides not to and fishes for a fag instead. Lights it when he finds one. He brings the cigarette to his lips and notices the

_(blood on his fingernails. no, in. inside, deep inside, underneath his nails and caked on top. blood everywhere, all over his hands, the ground, can even see it on his black clothing and he's hysterical)_

_("oh god, Dru kitten, oh god. oh fucking hell, Dru, oh god oh god ohgodohgodohgod—")_

_(only Dalton, book smarts 'i can translate anything, sir' Dalton, manages to get him a little calmer, enough so that he makes it inside before the sun rises) _

_(he scrubs himself raw in the shower but can't seem to completely remove the blood from under his fingernails)_

_(when he gets out of the shower, his skin now pink and almost hot to the touch, he gets Dalton to go out and try to see if there's a bottle of black nail polish somewhere in Prague. somehow, Dalton manages to find one)_

_(the next day, he wipes off the polish, but nearly goes into hysterics again when he can still see the crusted red beneath translucent white, though Dalton assures him there's nothing there) _

_(after that he makes sure his nails are always covered in black) _

Until now. He stopped wearing it months ago when

_("you think the nail polish we put on her is still there? or have her nails gone all black? it's still there, right? 'cause you're dead and your nails haven't rotted or anything and—and—") _

_(Dawn looks like she might burst into tears any moment now and Spike, for the first time ever, wants to hit her. hit her for putting those goddamn images in his head, hit her for ever bringing up the subject of a decaying Buffy) _

_(he doesn't of course. he only pulls her in close and she rests her head on his chest. makes a desperate attempt to control his voice as he murmurs,) _

_("i'm sure it's still there, Nibblet") _

He had a night (day?) mare later. He can't recall much of the contents, but he does remember the rotting hands reaching out for him. Rotting hands with rotting nails

_("you broke your promise, Spike") _

and when he woke up with a strangled cry, he

_(rips frantically at his black-lacquered nails until blood runs freely down his hands and onto the stone of his crypt and there is nothing left on his fingers, not even the cuticles)_

_("hey, peroxide boy—jesus christ, what the hell happened to you?")_

_("fuck off." voice rough from screaming. he can tell that Xander knows perfectly well what—who—this was all about) _

_(Spike tells Xander to fuck off again, but lets the boy help him to his feet) _

_(Red innocently inquires about Spike's mangled hands the next day, thinking it was a fight with some big nasty) _

_(Spike waits for Xander to snark something about how Blondie went berserk last night over a girl who never even loved him)_

_(but Xander is silent) _

The door he's leaning on gives way suddenly. Spike yelps as he falls flat on his back and he's unexpectedly granted a direct view up between Angel's legs. There's nothing new happening there, so he pushes himself into a sitting position.

He starts to wonder why Angel didn't keep on going ignoring the nightly sits outside the door when he registers the surprise in Angel's eyes. Realizes that Angel hadn't known Spike has been out here all this time and feels a stab of hurt that his sire wasn't even able to bleedin' sense him.

Sullen, Spike expels a stream of smoke. Gazes at the wisps of white curling into the air. White death to the mortals. Buffy complained once of his smoking in her presence, something about second-hand smoke.

And it makes him think, perhaps white is not so pure after all.

When the silence continues to stretch on, Spike sighs. "The hell do you want, Angelus?"

Angel simply stares. It's only then that Spike realizes something's wrong.

He slaps Angel's ankle lightly. "Hey. Ponce. Answer me, ya bastard."

Angel crouches down, not a single scratch left on his chest anymore, and trails a finger over Spike's cheek. "Am I real?" he whispers finally. "Am I real to you?"

Spike considers telling the truth for once. But he wants to be real to Angel. And if the rules of Karma are what he hypothesizes, then—

"Sure, mate. Real and solid, all right." And now Spike must be real to Angel.

_(yes yes must be must be must be) _

_(must be?) _

Angel nods slowly. "Good. That's good. I wasn't sure…couldn't see myself."

Spike notices for the first time the piece of glass clutched in Angel's hand.

And he plucks it out of his sire's grip. Takes Angel's bleeding hand and smears the blood over the smooth, flat surface of the glass.

"'Course you can't, love. 'S all covered in blood. Who can see into that?"

A small smile graces Angel's lips and he curls his fingers around Spike's.

"True."

* * *

End.

Let me know what you think!


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